


No Control

by Suchstuffasdreams



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Napoleon, Confused Napoleon, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Slow Build, Top Illya, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suchstuffasdreams/pseuds/Suchstuffasdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You told her that if you begged me for something, I wouldn't care, because we're only partners," the Russian recounted, and asked, his face unreadable, "Do you really think that? Is that what you think of me?"<br/>"Well, no." Napoleon was utterly dazed. Had he hurt Illya by saying that? Was Illya angry with him? "I mean, I only really said it to get her to talk." He really didn't know what to say. Sure, what he'd said had been exaggerated somewhat but...<br/>"I trust you very much, American Solo," Illya protested. "You are more than simply partner to me. You are my friend... My..." His English was clearly slipping in the heat of the moment.<br/>Napoleon suddenly couldn't resist. "Comrade?" he supplied.<br/>Illya narrowed his eyes at him. "For that, I will kill you slowly."</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>Something Napoleon says during a not-so-routine interrogation strikes a nerve with his new Russian partner, and the whole episode causes him to wonder about his and Illya's relationship...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They'd gotten word that she was alive in the area of Malta. She'd washed ashore, apparently, having jumped into the sea just in time. For a couple months she'd managed to live under an alias, out of sight of authorities. They picked her up there and brought her to the nearest facility for questioning. Her body and face were pretty badly scarred in places from the heat, but dental and fingerprints were a match.

"Victoria!" Napoleon had shouted gleefully as he entered the interrogation room, a solemn Russian in tow. "Oh, how I've missed you!"

Her clothing was much simpler — little jewelry, sun-bleached coarse cloth, a burlap shawl wrapped over her hair. The same cold eyes regarded Napoleon with vague interest.

"How I wish I could return the sentiment," she sighed.

"How have you been, dear Victoria?" Napoleon pulled a chrome chair from the other side of the chrome table so he could sit close to her. Illya stayed by the closed door, now just out of Napoleon's line of sight.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked, as if it were the same sort of question as "Are we out of laundry detergent?".

"No, no," Napoleon grinned, a Cheshire cat oozing victorious charm. "We just have some questions." He was aware of Illya moving around where he stood. Victoria glanced in his direction, and asked Napoleon, "Is he going to kill me?" nodding toward the tall ex-KGB agent.

"No, of course not!" Napoleon said, keeping his eyes on her.

"Really?" she pursed her lips snarkily, "Then why did he just pull out his gun?"

Napoleon turned to look at Illya. Sure enough, the man had his pistol gripped in both hands, aimed noncommittally at Victoria, who seemed just as unamused.

"If you want answers, I want your word that I won't be killed," Victoria shifted in her chair, aiming for a look of dominance, but really just betraying her fear. She locked eyes with Napoleon. "I want your word that he won't kill me."

Napoleon chuckled a little to himself. "Victoria, Victoria..." he tsked. "I have no control over him. That Russian does whatever he wants. I could get down on my knees and beg him not to shoot you. It means nothing to him." He sensed Illya shifting behind him but ignored it. It was likely just his reaction to Napoleon breaking from what they'd rehearsed. "He doesn't listen to me. I'm just his partner. He hates you. He has every right to shoot you. After all, you and your husband did try to have him killed — and me tortured." Illya shifted again, but Victoria clearly didn't notice. She was fixed on Napoleon.

"And where is my husband now?" she asked rhetorically. "Ah yes. You killed him. It's what you agents do. I think I'll refrain from answering any of your questions."

"Then I suppose I have no control at all over what happens to you," Napoleon sighed, then chuckled to himself, "You think I can't control the tall guy. Just wait until half the men in this building find out who you are and that you aren't willing to cooperate." He stood, straightening his tie and jacket. "I think I'll just leave you and our Russian friend to each other for a while. Let's see what happens."

He turned, nodded and smiled at Illya charmingly, and headed for the door. His hand was just touching the handle when she sigh exasperatedly, "Wait!"

He turned, feigning deafness. "What was that?"

"I'll answer your damn questions," she blew out a shaky breath. "I'll tell you whatever you want. Just get me a deal."

"Alright," Napoleon said, smiling wider as he sat again. "Are there any other tapes?"

"Deal first," Victoria sniped, "answers after."

"We can only get you a deal once we know you have good intel," Napoleon countered, and repeated slowly, as if she were hard of hearing, "Are. There. Any. Other. Tapes?"

She looked visibly flustered, at least as far as he could tell with all the scar tissue framing her cheeks. "One," she finally admitted.

"Where is it?" Illya suddenly said, startling Napoleon a bit.

She told them.

They had it found and brought in. They burned it in a metal tray on the table in front of her. Napoleon could swear that he saw the Russian smirk for a moment as he watched the last of the life in her eyes burn away with the tape in the cassette.

———

"Word from Gaby," Illya explains, holding out the letter he had just been reading to Napoleon as they entered the hotel room. Since it was just the two of them this time, and they hadn't used any binding aliases for the mission, U.N.C.L.E. had given them a double suite rather than two separate rooms in the hotel. One massive sitting room, and a bedroom with ensuite bathroom on each side, blocked off by a set of double doors.

Napoleon took the letter but barely glanced at it. He'd read it later. Right now he wanted to stretch out and relax before they had to go meet Waverly at 7. Illya picked up on the body language and summarised, "She says her solo mission has gone well, and she will be joining us within the week."

"I'm sure you're glad about that," Napoleon smiled weakly in Illya's general direction. He realized as soon as he said it that there was a barely-detectable edge to his words, and he partially wondered why. He meant what he said: Illya and Gaby had hit it off rather well, from what he'd heard and seen of them together. There was a clear, lingering sexual tension between them.

"Won't you?" Illya asked as Napoleon began to slip out of his suit jacket and head for his room on the left side of the suite. He turned toward the Russian agent, and could see a deeper question looming on the tall man's brow.

"Of course. I just meant that you two seem so..." He struggled for a moment, and decided on "congenial."

"I have long given up the belief that she is in love with me," Illya stated rather matter-of-factly, as if laying down the law, "and that I am in love with her..."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor as if intensely memorizing the carpet pattern. Napoleon felt somewhat bad for the now-hunched Russian standing forlornly in the center of the sitting room.

"I'm sorry," Napoleon stated, simply. He wasn't actually sure what he was supposed to be sorry for, but it felt like the comforting thing to say.

"Is no problem," Illya shrugged, making eye contact again. The Russian had the most enticing eyes, Napoleon thought. Focused, sharp, and an odd mix of grey and blue that seemed to change given the situation. His normally well-combed hair had started to spill over the brow just a bit, adding to his generally mussed look. Something about it sparked something in Napoleon, but he quickly suppressed it and turned toward the doors to his bedroom.

"Wait a moment..." Illya said, almost pleadingly. The inquisitiveness of it made Napoleon spin around. It conveyed a kind of trusting openness that Napoleon wasn't sure he'd ever really experienced from the Russian.

"What you said, to Victoria," Illya said, now examining the carpet again, "do you really believe that?"

Now Napoleon was surely confused. "What?"

"You told her that if you begged me for something, I wouldn't care, because we're only partners," the Russian recounted, and asked, his face unreadable, "Do you really think that? Is that what you think of me?"  
"Well, no." Napoleon was utterly dazed. Had he hurt Illya by saying that? Was Illya angry with him? "I mean, I only really said it to get her to talk." He really didn't know what to say. Sure, what he'd said had been exaggerated somewhat but...

God, the Russian always acted so aloof. Napoleon honestly had thought he couldn't care less. Did he actually think of them as friends or something? If their relationship was how Illya acted with friends, Napoleon had to wonder just how emotionally constipated the Russian agent was.

"I thought we are friends," Illya responded, his face now blank as he apparently read Napoleon's mind. Napoleon had the feeling he was trying to force himself to act indifferent now.

"I trust you very much, American Solo," Illya protested. "You are more than simply partner to me. You are my friend... My..." His English was clearly slipping in the heat of the moment.

Napoleon suddenly couldn't resist. "Comrade?" he supplied.

Illya narrowed his eyes at him. "For that, I will kill you slowly."

Napoleon couldn't help but break into a short peal of laughter at his own joke, before straightening himself up again. "I'm very sorry, Peril. I had no idea about your... passionate feelings for me."  
Now the Russian looked very ready to kill him. "I should've know not to bring it up. You Americans, making a joke out of everything." He turned with a huff and began to storm to his room, but Napoleon hurried across and caught his arm. The Russian jumped a little and pulled away, as if he'd been slapped.

"Easy there, Peril," he admonished sarcastically, before growing more serious. "Look, I just wanted to try to lighten the mood. I'm very fond of you, despite how much we both might act as if we despise one another. Hell, I trust you with my own life, which is more than I can say for most people."

"And I trust mine with you," Illya said, beginning to calm down.

"Let me extend the olive branch," Napoleon said, holding out his hand for a shake and adding a friendly smile. "I'm sorry about what I said."

Illya looked blankly between his face and his hand. "That is not olive branch. Is your hand."

Napoleon was shocked into wide-eyed stillness for a moment before the Russian burst out in a full (cute) laugh, and he realized he was joking.

(Why did he find Illya's laugh cute?)

"Very funny, Peril," he sighed, and lowered his hand.

"We Russians can make jokes too, Cowboy," Illya said, coming down from his fit of laughter. He noticed Napoleon had lowered his hand and gruffly grabbed it, bringing it back up and shaking it heartily with both hands. For the umpteenth time, Napoleon was struck by how strong Illya's grip was. It had been made clear on several occasions that the Russian's lanky-looking frame actually contained a fair amount of musculature — Napoleon couldn't help remembering when he yanked the bumper off Gaby's car in Germany, or when he had thrown a motorcycle on top of Victoria's husband. In the first instance, Illya had been trying to kill him; in the latter, he'd been trying to save him.

Before he knew it, Napoleon was clapping his free hand amiably over Illya's left wrist, and looking up at that pearly, warm smile and into those clear eyes, which led his gaze further upward to the delightfully messy hair.

(Delightfully?)

Those eyes. They were decidedly blue right now.

"I'm glad we talked about this, Peril. It's good to know where we stand." He wasn't actually glad, though he didn't let that show in his face. Something was still clearly off in the air.

"Yes, very good, my American... friend." Illya seemed to hesitate slightly at the word, as if processing it a bit, before doing the unexpected that knocked the encounter over the edge.

He released his grip with his right hand, reaching it up without any time for Napoleon to react, and gripped the sensitive space between Napoleon's neck and shoulders. Though he avoided physically reeling backward, Napoleon was utterly thrown off by the action, and by the inescapable warmth and strength that seemed to emanate from the Russian's touch and send sparks through him.

Napoleon hadn't physically moved at the touch, but he realized that his smile had certainly faltered — a physical manifestation of his confusion — and Illya noticed. His warm grin also faltered, ever so much, before uneasily returning to disguise the growing discomfort with the situation.

Napoleon was suddenly aware of exactly how close they were standing, and abruptly realized that Illya had become aware of the same.

He stopped breathing altogether.

Illya, grin returned, backed away slightly. He let go of Napoleon's hand, only to use his now-free left hand to repeatedly touch Napoleon's upper arm in what felt like a cross between a pat and a caress. His other hand gradually relinquished its grip on Napoleon's collarbone and slid grazingly down his pec before coming to rest at its owner's hip.

Napoleon had never believed himself to be a full-body blusher, yet in that moment...

"We shall talk again soon, Cowboy," Illya said, grinning full-force again. "Very soon," he added, also adding another pat-caress to Napoleon's arm before turning and heading toward his room.

Napoleon's eyes involuntarily drifted toward his ass as he sauntered through the double doors and out of view. His mind rebelliously postulated that the Russian had the nicest ass Napoleon had ever seen, before Napoleon shook himself out of his daze and walked to his room.

He closed the doors behind him and then leaned against them, eyes wide and pulse racing.

What the hell just happened?

He tried to run through the scene in his head again, but it all somewhat blurred... Blurred into slightly-messy dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, a hearty white-toothed laugh, and warm, strong hands. Not too mention that sexy accent...

The realization hit him like a freight train.

Napoleon was attracted to Illya.

In hindsight, it shouldn't have been that surprising. He had always known Illya was attractive, but he had never considered himself a victim of the Russian's charm. This had never happened to him before. He was supposed to be the charmer, the one who others fell for, were attracted to — not shaking and starting to sweat because his partner gave him an arm-rub.

And what was that all about? Why had Illya acted so strange at first, only to casually start getting very physical with him? His manner had been almost... predatorial.

Did Illya like Napoleon the same way?

No! Impossible. The Russian agent had made it clear they were friends, and had never betrayed the slightest hint of attraction to him.

Then again, Napoleon had just been thinking over the man's emotional constipation several moments ago.

Napoleon had to figure out how to approach this situation.

He'd been with men before. He hadn't been attracted to them, but they had been to him, so obviously his charm wouldn't be too hard to work on the Russian... if Napoleon chose that route. Then again, could having sex (or just trying to initiate it) with his partner ruin their relationship? What if Illya wasn't attracted to him in the slightest? What if Illya was homophobic? Russia had never been the most progressive type (though, neither had the USA, really — jail time or a steep fine were still accepted punishments for being openly queer).

Napoleon would have to feel out the waters a bit. Slowly drop hints — not even hints, just the slightest insinuations here and there — and try to understand the Russian's feelings on the matter.

Ugh, this was going to be a nightmare.

Napoleon slumped onto the bed, closed his eyes for a quick breather, and was quickly asleep.

In the dream, he was laying on the bed like he was now, but Illya was walking toward him. "Cowboy," he smirked in his thick accent, before crawling on top of the bed — on top of Napoleon. He was straddling Napoleon's thighs now, face to face with him, as he closed his eyes and seemed to inhale Napoleon's scent. "A little too much cologne," he said, predatorial smile not going away as he leant back on his heels, "as usual."

Then, suddenly, he was ripping Napoleon's shirt open, buttons scattering as he ran his warm, calloused hands over Napoleon's smoothly waxed torso, tweaking at his nipples and rubbing his fingers into the grooves between his pectorals and his abdominal muscles.

Napoleon was impossibly turned on right now.

"God bless America," Illya purred, leaning in to kiss Napoleon. Their lips were a tantalizing two inches apart when he murmured, "Cowboy."

The murmur became a loud call. "Cowboy!"

Napoleon sat up. He was awake, shirt still buttoned, and Illya was calling him from the other room.

His dick was aching in his trousers. He wondered whether to take care of it, when Illya suddenly called him again, impatiently.

He decided to will it away and answer him. He got up and started toward the door, but quickly checked himself in the mirror nearby as he walked. His hair was only slightly disheveled — he fixed that by moving a few dark strands over his forehead messily — and his shirt was fully buttoned. He undid the top two, then decided on three, and then untucked the shirt partially before tucking it in again more. If mussed-up worked for Illya, it damn well could work for him.

He opened the doors and leant against the frame. The Russian was once more well groomed, wearing his trademark turtleneck and cap and sitting in a chair playing a lonely game of chess, facing him but looking down intently at the board.

"Waverly called," he said, nodding slightly toward the phone, "He said something came up in London and he will be meeting us tomorrow rather than today, and Gaby will be with him."

Napoleon glanced at the clock. 6:30. He'd been asleep about 3 hours.

"He said to make ourselves comfortable," Illya said, before looking up at Napoleon blankly. "Though it appears you already have."

"I was napping," Napoleon sighed, trying to appear nonchalant and cool-headed.

"I didn't intend on waking you until later," Illya nodded, back to the game, "but you were making these pitiful desperate noises, so I thought best to now."

Napoleon gulped. He'd been making what?

"What were you dreaming?" Illya said, an amused glint in his eyes.

"I..." Napoleon began, then stuttered a bit and finished, "I don't remember."

The Russian hummed thoughtfully and then devoted himself entirely to his game once more.

Napoleon strode around the room aimlessly, "What shall we do then, my fair Russian?"

"Do?" Illya asked, as if it were not apparent that he was in the middle of the most accomplished work he had ever begun in his life.

"For fun," Napoleon smiled and lazily drew out his syllables. Illya opened his mouth to respond but Napoleon chided, "Not chess."

"What do you want to do then?" Illya looked less interested in the answer and more interested in not having to listen.

"We're in the French Riviera," Napoleon laughed, "What is there not to do?!"

"Shut up, apparently," Illya muttered as he moved his bishop several spaces over in order to knock out his pawn. Trying to oblige, Napoleon laughed, a little too heartily, and Illya gave him a stare.

"What are you laughing at?" Illya finally asked.

Napoleon decided to be coy. "You, of course. You're surrounded by some of the most beautiful city life and natural landscape in the world, and you're all absorbed in your chess!"

"You want to go for a walk then?" Illya asked, then sighed, "Fine. I walk with you. After chess."

Napoleon hummed. "I was thinking we could 'talk the talk' before we 'walk the walk'," he drew out, strolling casually closer to the Russian agent.

This was it. He was going through with this. He had to be losing his mind.

"Excuse me?" Illya asked, clearly confused now.

"Well, you know what they say, French is the language of love," Napoleon sighed, moving behind Illya's seat and then dropping down so that he was whispering directly in his ear, "and that's the kind of language I like speaking."

It was terribly, obviously bad, and yet, Napoleon could see how clearly Illya went stiff in his seat and resisted looking at him. Napoleon took the chance to let his breath ghost over the shell of his ear before inhaling some of his scent slightly — it was musky, but sweet, and left Napoleon feeling tingly all over.

He drew himself up and ambled over to the sofa just nearby, flopping out in a way that seemed graceless but was really very trained to show off his form — his chest out, left arm draped over the back, legs spread invitingly, and his right hand lazily strewn across his hip, drawing focus to his...

"What are you doing?" Illya asked warily.

Napoleon stretched a little bit, purring lightly as he did. "I'm making myself more comfortable." He couldn't help chuckling to himself a bit as he asked, "Won't you join me?"

"I am comfortable," the still Russian said slowly, seeming to indicate that he meant where he was.

"You don't look comfortable to me, Peril," Napoleon drawled. "You look... tense."

He watched Illya squirm just slightly.

"Stiff," he continued.

"More than a little hard."

Illya suddenly stood, rising quickly to his feet and spinning toward his door. Napoleon tensed and rose as well, following closely. "Peril," he said, intending to apologize in case he'd just ruined every shred of their friendship when Illya spun around and Napoleon saw...

Pure, unadulterated rage.

In one swift motion, Illya was bearing down on Napoleon, sweeping him across the floor and against the wall with both hands firmly closing around his neck.

"Peril!" Napoleon choked out, but the Russian was firmly forcing himself onto him, hands growing tighter and tighter. Napoleon couldn't breathe, throat spamming, and he knew that if Illya tightened his grip any further, his windpipe would be thoroughly crushed.

This was it. He'd pushed Illya too far and now the Russian was going to actually kill him. He was strangely alright with dying this way.

He managed to look pleadingly into Illya's eyes, and then, suddenly, as quickly as they'd borne down on him, the hands were releasing him. Napoleon gasped and sputtered for air as Illya's hands found purchase again on his shoulders, pushing him up against the wall again as he tried to catch his breath. He tried to look up into the Russian's cold eyes and all he saw was... dominance.

Without a word, a smirking Illya leaned in and licked a long, wet stripe up from Napoleon's collarbone to his cheek, causing him to gasp involuntarily.

"Did you think I would kill you?" Illya softly laughed, fixing his gaze on Napoleon like a predator once more. Napoleon had no idea what to think — what to say — what to do — and suddenly Illya was pressing their lips together and lapping into his mouth hungrily and...

Maybe this was going in the direction Napoleon had originally intended.

God, it was heavenly. Napoleon was sure he had never been kissed like this in his whole life, and he'd been kissed many times. He could live live off of these kinds of intense kisses.

But then, just as it was getting from good to downright delicious, Illya backed off, dropping Napoleon and settling back into his chair, no longer feigning anger or discomfort as he had been before.

"What was that?" Napoleon asked, voice a wreck as he crawled into the chair opposite the Russian.

"You think that you can what? Trick me? Trip me up? By acting sexually toward me?" Illya said, clearly thinking he knew everything that was going on. "It takes more than that, Cowboy."

Napoleon knew it must be clear on his face how confused he was. "I... What? I... Wh... I wasn't trying to—"

"Save it, Cowboy," Illya sighed, and it looked as if he'd just had an unfortunate point proven. "This I should have expected. I try to be open with you earlier and you decide I am... what? Ripe for conquest?"

"What?" Napoleon stammered once more.

"I am no conquest," Illya said, rising with finality and ignoring Napoleon's protests. "I am sorry now that we spoke today..."

"Peril!" Napoleon called, rising as well as Illya turned toward his door, apparently not interested in chess anymore. "I don't think of you as a conquest! I never have!"

Illya scoffed, "So what? This? This attempt at seduction is your feeble attempt at beginning long-term romantic relationship?"

Maybe Illya had a point. What had Napoleon been wanting to accomplish? Would having sex with Illya have magically made his feelings go away? or on the inverse, somehow cemented them as a romantic couple? It was unrealistic.

The thought popped into Napoleon's head that at no point had Illya denied interest in such a thing. He suddenly knew he had to keep arguing his case.

"Would you..." he began, as Illya's hand went to his doorknob. His voice sounded so pleading, desperate — though apparently it was enough to get Illya to freeze where he was, despite not turning to face him.

"Would you believe me if I said it was?" Napoleon finished, and now Illya turned to look at him curiously. He gazed at him, those piercing blue eyes examining him as if they could see into his soul.

"You are good actor, Cowboy," he sighed, twisting the doorknob.

"Illya!" Napoleon suddenly cried, and he realized the weight of the name as he said it. He never called Illya by his first name. It was always "Peril" or "the Russian" or even just "the tall man".

Illya apparently understood the weight of the name as well, as he slowly let go of the knob and turned to fully face Napoleon.

"Look," Napoleon said, pouring out his soul as best he could. "Look, I don't know, but with you saying all this stuff now... It's occurring to me that I've never really been in any sustainable long-term relationships. I have a lot of one-night stands and flirtations here and there, but never anything serious. So... I don't know... Maybe I don't know how to handle something this serious... seriously." He was memorizing the carpet pattern now, abjectly avoiding looking near Illya, and it reminded him oddly of the Russian's stance earlier. Remembering that their roles had been somewhat reversed just hours earlier gave him the courage to glance upward.

He was surprised to see that Illya had moved several steps closer. They were now only two or three yards apart, and Illya was scrutinizing him intensely, the look on his face having visibly changed from upset to... confused? Pitying? Sad?

Gosh, he didn't want Illya feeling sad on his part.

Did he really just think that?

"Okay," the Russian said after a silent eternity.

"Okay... what?" Napoleon asked hesitantly.

"Okay, I will believe you," Illya said. Napoleon's heart leapt in his chest. His entire body felt like light feathers were tickling him everywhere from every angle. He could feel a smile starting to creep up on his lips.  
Then came the qualifier:

"I will believe you if you can prove yourself."

Napoleon clearly wasn't thinking straight, because the first thing out of his mouth was "What do I have to do?" He hesitated for a moment, before decisively nodding. "Name it. I'll do it."

Illya smiled in a somewhat emotionless way. "Sleep with me."

Napoleon felt his blood run cold, then hotter than fire in seconds' time. His knees were about to buckle. He was going to faint.

"Tonight," Illya tacked on, beginning to show his pearly whites in his grin.

Napoleon was vaguely aware of making a strangled sound in his throat that he was pretty sure Illya heard.

Illya suddenly turned, walked to his door, and opened it before turning to Napoleon again. "If you can sleep in same bed as me for one night, without touching, or doing anything inappropriate, I will know you are serious."

There was the kicker. Napoleon felt his heart stop. His breathing was dangerously slow. He felt shivers running down his back as Illya walked into his room and looked out at him, grinning. "I will be expecting you at 10."

Then he closed the door, separating them.

Napoleon broke into a cold sweat.

Oh god.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night and a morning with the Russian conundrum that is Illya Kuryakin

Napoleon pretty much spent the time between Illya closing the door and 10 o'clock pacing aimlessly and feeling like he was going to vomit blood.

He was feeling more anxiety than he'd ever felt in his life.

This was it, wasn't it? He was admitting he had feelings for Illya? And Illya was... not rejecting him?

What did this mean?

How long had Napoleon felt this way about the Russian. He'd found him attractive since the night they first saw each other, and there was a certain charm to him that affected Napoleon, but he'd never felt swayed in the least by the man's alarming height, his pert mouth, his golden hair, his crystal eyes...

Okay, Napoleon may have been in denial for a long time.

What about Illya? Did he even feel similarly? or was he just humoring Napoleon? or playing with him? Napoleon remembered how the Russian had looked earlier after the mission — hurt. Hurt by Napoleon's words. He'd carried the same look after Napoleon's attempt at seduction — only better hidden.

Was the tall, fuzzy Russian just as enamored with Napoleon as Napoleon was with him? God, Napoleon hoped so. His mind conjured images of Illya glancing toward him, at times when Napoleon would think nothing of it, but Illya could be deep in thought about how much he loved Napoleon's cleft chin, or how luscious his hair was.

To be fair, Napoleon had been an annoyance for Illya from Day One. He was constantly trying to one-up the Russian during their first few missions, and even now they tended to devolve into heated bickering whenever left to their own conversation. And yet, for all Napoleon had annoyed Illya, he had also admired him. Couldn't it be the same for Illya?

Napoleon thought that he wasn't lucky enough for that to be true. Illya couldn't feel that way about him, or if he did, it wasn't nearly as deeply as Napoleon felt.

It was to this frustrating internal monologue that Napoleon subjected himself while, as he could tell by the sound of it, a rather relaxed Illya got room service and took a long shower. If Illya was as troubled as Napoleon was, he certainly internalized it better.

Trying not to picture Illya as he showered reminded Napoleon that personal hygiene might not be the worst thing to take care of. Summoning up all his willpower, Napoleon undressed, went to the bathroom, and drew himself a luxurious warm bath.

As he soaked in hot water and Epsom salts, Napoleon tried to remind himself what Illya had said. At ten, Napoleon would go to Illya's room, and they would sleep together. Literally. Napoleon couldn't touch him or try anything "inappropriate", which for Illya could range anywhere from "sexual" to "mentioning his childhood without his permission".

Napoleon had to spend the night in Illya's bed without anything happening.

That was the challenge.

It had occurred to Napoleon that the act itself couldn't be too difficult — he could control himself for eight hours — but what came afterward. What would happen when Napoleon proved himself? Would Illya accept him right in the spot? No. No, it couldn't be that simple. Illya wouldn't trust him that quickly. He might let down his guard a bit, but there would still be a long way to go.

Napoleon was sighing to himself over his predicament when he noticed where the heat of the water was stirring movement in his lower regions. His dick, heavy and thick, was now bobbing half-hard in the water, and the thought of Illya just made it worse.

The Russian had long since finished showering, yet Napoleon found himself picturing it anyway. Illya's naked body, soaked in water, gleaming in the fluorescent light, his hair hanging wetly over his brow, eyes half-closed to keep out the water. Water streaming in rivulets down his moist mouth and angular chin, curling down his thick neck to cascade past defined pecs and abs, dripping off of hard hips and muscular thighs...

Napoleon had no idea what Illya's cock might look like, but in his mind, Illya would stroke it lazily as he washed, running those warm, strong hands over his body. Napoleon had first felt those hands really the night he saved Illya from drowning after the botched B&E. When they had ridden the motorbike back to the hotel — Illya, wet and warm, torso pressed against Napoleon's back, hands on him, legs touching his, breath soft over Napoleon's neck...

Napoleon was stroking his dick now, slowly but surely, twisting at all the right angles.

He yearned to feel Illya's hands on him once again — to feel that warmth and strength on him, on his body — to feel Illya touch him everywhere he needed to be touched, to use those big hands reverently to bring him to ecstasy, the same way that Napoleon would worship Illya's body as they fucked, warm bodies moving against each other, wordless moans slipping past parted lips and pained cries of names as each of them reached climax, hands grasping at skin and hair, and lips crashing wildly, violent tangle of limbs, breathless passion...

Napoleon came with a thrash in the water, feeling orgasm wrack his weak form. Thick white spurts of come squirted into the water, spreading out over the surface as Napoleon fought to catch his breath, coming down from the sexual high.

As he rose gingerly from the water, Napoleon lamented cutting short such an exquisite bath, but decided it was at least good that he got out some of his pent-up energy before he had to face the tall Russian.

By 9:30, Napoleon had combed his hair five different ways (finally settling on a messier look that seemed more natural), had perfumed and oiled himself (before deciding it made no sense to, and rubbing most of it off), and had dressed himself in some boxers, a white T-shirt, and a soft navy-blue bathrobe provided by the hotel. He brushed his teeth twice, flossed twice, and washed his face twice, and then sat in his bed in anxious stillness, checking the clock incessantly to discover if it was time yet.

Finally, at about a minute to ten, he rose and walked out of his room, over to Illya's.

He knocked twice.

"Is open!" called the Russian from somewhere inside, and Napoleon hesitantly opened the door, to find the room vacant. The bed was still made, and steam was floating lightly from the half-closed bathroom door. A table with several covered trays, no doubt left over from room service, littered the corner nearest the door. The only light in the room was from the bathroom, and the two lamps on either side of the bed.

"I will be out in moment," Illya called from within the bathroom, and Napoleon heard water running.

He shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot, having settled in the center of the room.

"Make yourself comfortable," he heard Illya say from the bathroom, and he could hear the smirk in his voice. It occurred to Napoleon that it was unfair for that to be said in a situation where sex was not to be had.

"Very funny," Napoleon quipped, and awkwardly decided to move closer to the bed, stopping before he reached it because he realized Illya might have a preference on which side of the bed to sleep on. He always preferred the left, personally...

"I hope you do not mind," said Illya, again apparently smirking, "but I typically sleep in nude," and Napoleon barely had any time to react to that statement before, lo and behold, Illya emerged from the bathroom.  
It was miles better than any sexual fantasy Napoleon could ever conjure up. He had gotten glimpses of Illya shirtless before, on missions and when recuperating after a fight, but here he could enjoy all of it: his trim, hard shoulders and thick, long arms, bulging pecs and abs, the small scars and scrapes from close-calls in battle, the light dusting of dark blond hair that crested Illya's chest and gathered around his belly button just to trail down all the way to his...

Napoleon might've been high on adrenaline, but he swore it was the most glorious cock he'd ever seen, long and thick in all the right places, head blushing red, dusted with hair and hanging between those muscular thighs. It wasn't even erect yet, God damn the bastard.

Illya seemed to have caught him staring, but said nothing of it. "And you will be wearing...?" he motioned curiously to the bathrobe. Napoleon scrambled a bit to open it.

"Boxers and a shirt for me," he sputtered out, "and I might keep this on too," gesturing with the robe, "I heard it was supposed to get a bit nippy tonight."

Poor choice of words. Illya's nipples were blushing and erect.

"I will take this side of bed," the Russian said, strutting like a peacock to the side of the bed closest to the bathroom door, but keeping a straight face the whole time.

It was the right side of the bed. 'Fate!' screamed out a desperate part of Napoleon's brain.

"I always prefer the left," Napoleon said as nonchalantly as possible, with an agreeing smile. He pulled up the covers and crawled underneath as Illya turned for a moment to pick something up from under the mattress, giving Napoleon a gracious view of the most shapely ass he had ever seen (well, of course, next to his own).

As Illya crawled under the covers, he brandished the object: a knife. "I also sleep with knife," he explained, settling down to place it under his pillow. "And I do not think I have to warn you, I am light sleeper." He laid his head on the pillow and murmured "Good night," turning off his lamp with finality.

"Night, dear," Napoleon sighed, shutting off his lamp, but he was still sitting up. He was trying to process all this, which was getting harder with all the blood rushing out of his brain and back into his...

His lower body was under the covers, barely a foot of space between him and Illya's beautiful, naked body.

He was starting to think he wouldn't survive the night.

  
———

 

Napoleon entered the last circle of hell at 2:57 AM. That was what the clock said when he looked at it after waking up. He had managed to do some breathing exercises and calm himself enough to go to sleep less than twenty minutes after Illya stopped moving. Now, he was awoken by Illya moving again, but it wasn't because he was awake.

Less than a foot away from Napoleon, the gorgeous nude Russian was on his stomach, breathing heavily and moving against the mattress. As far as Napoleon could tell, the giant was mostly twisting his legs in the sheets, but it was clear every couple seconds that he was also rutting gently against the bed, his hips pistoning lightly as he tried to rub out what Napoleon could only imagine was a massive hard-on against the mattress.

Regardless of his movements, the Russian was apparently still asleep. His breathing, even if heavy, was still even, and he was mumbling quietly and pleasantly in a way that would seem to betray a sleep disorder of some kind.

By the time Illya let out a quiet little moan alongside one of his thrusts, Napoleon was fully awake and fully hard. His fingers were twitching, every part of his libido screaming to reach out and touch the other man, to touch himself, to bring Illya to sweet release—

Napoleon swore internally. 'No! I have to be still.'

Illya had said he was a light sleeper, and Napoleon had seen it proven on previous missions — Illya could be awake in an instant and ready to kill within seconds. If Napoleon so much as breathed in his direction the tall KGB agent might wake up immediately, and that would be the end of Napoleon's chances with him, if not the end of his life.

Regardless, Illya's entire being was something out of a wet dream come true. Napoleon had the images of him naked earlier seared into his memory forever, and this little miracle of Illya fucking the mattress in his sleep and making these mewling noises...

Napoleon was painfully hard in his boxers. For a moment he seriously considered touching himself to relieve some of the pressure, and his hand even moved halfway there before he caught himself. Any rustling of the sheets could wake Illya. He couldn't do that, especially while hard. It would be just as tough to explain jacking himself off next to Illya as it would be to explain touching Illya himself.

Napoleon thought for a moment that he might win this round, when Illya suddenly started moaning louder, loud enough for Napoleon to catch a name.

"Napoleon..."

Wait, what?

"Napoleon..."

Illya was softly moaning his name into his pillow during what was clearly a wet dream. Napoleon couldn't believe it. The tall Russian was attracted to him!

In the darkness, Napoleon could just make out the shape of Illya's back arching as he continued to rut against the bed, making the most delicious sounds Napoleon had ever heard, moaning with that deep gravelly voice of his.

"Da, Napoleon, da... You feel so good... Da..."

Jesus Christ, this was all going straight to Napoleon's cock.

If Illya was really attracted to him this way, and was in the middle of having such an intense wet dream about him, would he really be that mad if Napoleon just reached over and... helped him out a little? It would be a favor, really, and how would Illya be able to deny his feelings for Napoleon after what Napoleon had just seen? He would have to give in at some point, and he clearly wouldn't mind it...

'No, no no no!' shouted the only rational voice in Napoleon's brain. The entire point of doing this wasn't to convince Napoleon that Illya was into him! It was to show Illya that Napoleon was interested in him as more than just a conquest. If Napoleon did wake Illya up, even if Illya wasn't mad (which logically was unlikely since Illya spent 99% of his time made at /someone/) it would still make it so that Illya was a conquest, a sexual encounter rather than a serious potential... boyfriend?

It occurred to Napoleon just how little he had thought this out in the long haul.

Napoleon grit his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to block out the intense naked dry-humping session that Illya was having next to him, trying to ignore his throbbingly hard dick. He tried thinking of anything that would get himself unaroused: roadkill, garbage, oil tankers, dead puppies, the Holocaust, feral animals, vomit...

It was roughly thirty minutes later by the time Illya had slowed his rutting, ceased his grunting, and drifted back into peaceful sleep. Napoleon did his best to ignore the question lingering in his mind ("Did he come?") and himself drifted slowly into somewhat fitful sleep, his dreams full of nightmares that he seldom remembered upon waking.

Napoleon woke to an incessant clanging ringing that he swore for a moment must be Satan's telephone, but he quickly realized was the alarm clock. His eyes fluttered open sleepily and he was immediately aware of being alone in the bed. There was faint light leaking in through the curtains in the window, and the clock on Illya's side of the bed was shaking faintly as it rang out the irritating alarm. It was only 5:45, Napoleon realized with a chill. On leisurely mornings, Napoleon never woke up earlier than 7.

With the sound of running water in the bathroom alerting Napoleon to where the Red Peril was at the moment, Napoleon suddenly felt the need to reach over and pat the mattress where Illya had been. The question was still in his mind of whether or not the giant had come during his fitful wet dream, and a twisted part of Napoleon wanted to know for sure. Eyes on the door, Napoleon slid his left hand over and patted the area where Illya had lain. Dear heavens, it was warm! As far as Napoleon could feel, though, there were no wet, sticky, or dried come stains to be found. Illya hadn't come? Why? Did his dream simply change that mercilessly before allowing him to release?

Napoleon quickly drew back his hand as he heard the water turn off in the bathroom. Illya padded back into the room, clearly fully awake and still in all his golden, naked glory. "Good morning, Cowboy," he said with a faint smirk as he turned off the alarm. "I try to adhere to strict schedule. You may sleep in later if you want."

Napoleon tried his best to appear chipper despite the feeling of utter tiredness in his very bones (he was gonna need quite a lot of coffee). "I'm fine, Peril."

Illya hummed and began to walk toward the bathroom, giving Napoleon a beautiful sight of his back muscles and butt.

Napoleon couldn't help himself. "Peril?" he called, stopping the Russian in his tracks. "Where exactly does this put us?"

The Russian turned toward him slowly, expression unreadable, as Napoleon couldn't help but rake his eyes across his broad shoulders, impeccable physique, strong thighs, and impressive manhood.

"You really want to know now, Cowboy?" Illya asked.

Napoleon nodded tentatively, "Y-Yes."

The Russian nodded in consideration, and then was suddenly striding straight for Napoleon, a look of pure determination on his face. Napoleon was trapped between scared and aroused as Illya suddenly tore the bed covers off of him and reached across to grab his legs, pulling Napoleon with frightening force toward him. Napoleon didn't know how to respond, when suddenly the Russian had leaned between his legs and was kissing him, hard. It was the same intense passion with which he had kissed Napoleon the day before. Napoleon melted, instantly growing erect and keening as Illya lapped into his mouth while running his hands under Napoleon's shirt, rucking it up to caress his torso and play with his nipples.

Illya broke away to pull off Napoleon's shirt and boxers, throwing them onto the floor. Napoleon groaned as Illya lined up their hardening cocks and began stroking them together, leaning in again to take Napoleon's mouth.

"Is this what you want, Cowboy?" Illya asked as he broke the kiss.

Napoleon arched his back at the twist of Illya's grip on their cocks, "More. I need more..."

"Alright Cowboy," Illya snarled, "I'll give you more."

Suddenly, however, the Russian let go of them both and left the room entirely. Napoleon laid there in shock, unsure of how to respond. Quickly, however, the tall man was back with a bottle of lube and some condoms in hand. Napoleon recognized them.

"Hey! Those are from my suitcase!"

Illya chuckled, and Napoleon was distracted momentarily by his naked body as it reached the bed and twisted to drop the condoms on the table.

"Would you rather we do this dry?" the Russian quirked an eyebrow.

Napoleon had no objections as he soon had Illya's warm fingers pressing cool lube into him — an odd conflict of sensations, but sending sparks through his body nonetheless. Napoleon groaned at the delectable stretch as Illya's index and middle finger slid back and forth inside him in unison. It didn't take long for him to start bucking his hips, trying to get more, trying to get Illya to find that one spot—

Napoleon let out a pathetic broken moan as Illya's fingers curled up and dug into his prostate for a moment, sending shock waves of pleasure through him. Illya began mercilessly fucking him with his fingers, eventually slipping in his ring finger as well and sliding them in and out roughly, thrusting at Napoleon's prostate and making him grunt and moan uncontrollably.

"Illya," Napoleon finally managed to groan, "I need you... I need you to fuck me, Illya..."

"What am I doing now, Cowboy?" the Russian teased, crooking his fingers to make Napoleon moan.

"No, Illya," he growled, "your cock, Illya, I need your cock... I need you to fuck me now..."

"I need to finish preparing you first," Illya growled back, spreading his fingers inside Napoleon and making him gasp.

"Now, Illya," he panted, "I need you now!" He was going to cum soon.

Illya suddenly withdrew all his fingers at once, leaving Napoleon feeling terribly empty. "Illya," he keened, "I need you..."

"Yes, yes, I hear you first time, Cowboy," Illya huffed and was suddenly pressing the bottle of lube to Napoleon's hole. Napoleon quirked an eyebrow in confusion, and Illya chuckled, "You are impatient and don't let me finish with fingers. You will need this." With that, he squeezed, and Napoleon felt the cool lube squirt directly into him, coating the walls of his hole. He groaned at the sudden cold wetness. Illya dropped the bottle on the nightstand and Napoleon looked down to see the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on — Illya, naked and golden and gorgeous, face flushed and sweat beading around his forehead, as he stroked his erect cock. Napoleon had thought Illya's cock was a sight before, but now — heavens above, now it was at least two inches longer, thickened and bulging and standing straight up, flushed red at the head and leaking precome out of the tip.

Illya reached over and lifted up a condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth in a way that Napoleon somehow managed to find sexy. "Safety first," Illya smirked as he rolled on the condom and proceeded to slick it up with lube, stroking his huge cock tantalizingly.

Napoleon almost wanted to bless him when Illya pressed his cockhead against his hole and pushed in, stretching and filling Napoleon so /perfectly/ as he slowly bottomed out. He adjusted himself slightly, and Napoleon could suddenly feel that Illya's cock was dangerously close to his prostate. Napoleon let out a loud, drawn-out moan and involuntarily bucked his hips, trying to force Illya to move, to go deeper. To his extreme pleasure, Illya began to pull out and push in, thrusting in and out slowly at first but with increasing speed. Napoleon arched his back and curled his toes as every thrust wracked his body with pleasure, and moaned when Illya began roughly pounding into him with incredible ferocity, banging his prostate and filling him up with his warmth.

Napoleon soon realized his moans were turning into chants, "Yes, yes, so good, you feel so good, Illya, yes..." Illya suddenly slowed down, catching his breath before chuckling darkly. "Come on, Cowboy," he smirked, "let's see how well you ride."

With that, Illya rolled them over so that he was on his back and Napoleon, still speared on his cock, was on top of him. With a smile, Napoleon sat up and began to push himself up off of Illya with his thighs, relishing in the delicious drag of the Russian's cock inside him, before lowering himself back down. Illya gasped throughout, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.

Expertly, Napoleon arched his back and rose back up again before slamming back down, groaning at the feel of Illya's cock, soon falling into an easy rhythm of bouncing on Illya's cock so that it at least brushed by his prostate with each thrust, getting him closer and closer to orgasm. Illya's hands were suddenly on his hips, and he could suddenly feel the Russian thrusting his hips in time with him, burying himself in Napoleon with each thrust and sending them both closer and closer to climax.

Unable to help himself, Illya let out a long moan, and Napoleon looked deep into his eyes. The Russian was aroused and rough, but as Illya's mouth went slack and his eyelids fluttered momentarily, Napoleon saw something else in his eyes. Some kind of sadness. Something held back.

"Come on, Illya," Napoleon slowed his movements to lean down and gently kiss along the Red Peril's jaw. "Show me what you want." He ran his hands across Illya's chest. "Open up to me, Illya. Open up for me." He wanted to know every part of Illya in that moment, to let Illya know every part of him, to be perfectly one with each other.

Illya looked up at him, and the same odd glimmer crossed his eyes before it was suddenly replaced with brutal determination. In an instant, Illya's hands were roughly gripping Napoleon's arms and he was in the air, Illya's cock still inside him as Illya spun them around quickly so that Napoleon was again on his back and Illya was actually plowing into him.

Napoleon moaned delightfully at the sudden change, and felt his orgasm approaching as Illya's cock brushed his prostate with each violent thrust. Illya leaned down to bury his face in the side of Napoleon's neck, and Napoleon could feel his warm breath and wet lips roaming across his skin as the Russian continued pistoning his hips into him.

"I'm gonna come," Napoleon choked out, grasping at Illya's back with his hands. "You're so good, Illya, feel so good, I'm gonna come..." Body wracked with pleasure and pressure gathering in the base of his cock, Napoleon closed his eyes and burned the feeling of Illya into his brain — Illya on him, Illya in him, Illya around him...

Hole clenching and toes curling, Napoleon groaned Illya's name loudly as his cock pulsed and the best orgasm he'd had in forever tire through him, the feeling of release overwhelming as he came in long spurts on both Illya's stomach and his own. With satisfaction he felt Illya's thrusts go erratic before Illya suddenly buried himself in him up to the root, stilling for a second before thrusting out and doing the same. Napoleon felt Illya's warmth soaking into his very being, both inside and out, and moaned again in sync with Illya as the Russian groaned out his climax, forming the syllable "Na" before the word he was forming devolved into a soft sigh of release. Illya pressed his lips to Napoleon's neck one last time before pulling himself up. Napoleon felt intensely satisfied, and even more so when he saw Illya's face — sweat-slick and flushed, lips parted and eyes half-closed in tired release, hair matted down. Napoleon reached up a hand to delicately trace the scar on the side of Illya's face. "You're so beautiful," Napoleon chuckled tiredly, and a momentary look of confusion dawned on Illya's face. He regarded Napoleon for the first time since he had flipped them pre-orgasm, and Napoleon couldn't read the expression on his face even though it startled him a bit.

Illya sighed with seeming detachment and pulled out of Napoleon, mechanically taking off his condom, tying it up, and throwing it in the waste basket. He began to stand up fully as if to walk away, and Napoleon grabbed his arm, a bit desperate but still trying to smile, trying to let his post-coital bliss last. "Where are you going, Illya?"

Illya glanced at him with a look of utter puzzlement that Napoleon couldn't help but laugh at.

"At least come back here and kiss me, you Russian idiot."

Illya grunted, almost snarling now, scaring Napoleon straight out of his high. "How far are you going to take this, Cowboy?" he asked with alarming disdain.

"What?" Napoleon asked, utterly confused and a little frightened to say the least. Why was Illya acting like this?

"This game?" Illya sighed dejectedly, "How long are you going to keep playing this on me? Didn't I give you what you wanted?"

"What are you talking about?" Napoleon asked, getting defensive, "You mean the sex?"

"Yes, Solo!" There was a harshness to him saying his last name like that. "You wanted me to fuck you and I did! How long are you going to act like—" He broke off, unable to say the next words, instead grunting and turning to walk toward the bathroom.

"Illya! Come back here!" Napoleon yelled, pulling himself up off the bed despite the slight uncomfortable ache is his ass.

"Don't call me that!" Illya shouted, spinning around in the doorway. His face was red and tense, and his hands were balled into fits at his side. Napoleon recognized this posture with sudden shock. "You don't get to call me by my name, not like that, not when you do this!"

"Ill—" Napoleon caught himself, "I don't understand. I thought... I thought—"

Illya interrupted, snarling, "You thought I open up to you earlier and now you can whisper in my ear and play with me and make me another notch on bedpost—" He broke into quick, fervent Russian, which Napoleon luckily understood most of, "and now you can call me by my name like we are [...] and make me your little bitch, your [...] begging to fuck you, thinking you care and you don't just [...] like everyone..." Napoleon started to understand less and less as Illya's speech began to break apart, replaced with angry grunts and growls as his face turned redder.

Finally, without warning, the Russian picked up the table with the room service trays on it and hurled it across the room, linen napkins and silver trays of uneaten food clattering to the floor and mahogany wood cracking against the wall, ripping the wallpaper. The flying table had missed Napoleon by several yards, but he was still so fixated on it that by the time he looked back at Illya, the Russian was sitting in the doorway of the bathroom, hands in fists over his eyes and making these noises...

Oh god, Napoleon realized with more terror than he'd ever felt in his life.

Illya is crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of time I'm just not italicizing anything. Sorry not sorry. I'm already doing so much cleaning up on this fic without italicizing words for emphasis/style.  
> I will probably have Chapter 3 up before the weekend is over. Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, this fic certainly is much more than it says on the tin.  
> This is another old piece that I guess I'll be uploading as I edit it and clean it up. Hope you enjoy!


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